Seeker's Shots 3
by Frank Waters
Summary: Season 7 submissions for the Quidditch League as Magpies Seeker.
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N:**_ _This is the Seeker from Montrose Magpies writing for QLFC Practice from past Season 2, Round 6._

_Prompt: Write a letter to a girlfriend/boyfriend/spouse_

_**Word Count:**_ _533_

_**Disclaimer:**_ _I have no intentions of making money from this story, so all the recognisable stuff belongs to J.K. Rowling._

* * *

**That First Letter**

Dear Dumbledore,

It has been two days since you put me here in Nurmengard, and I'm proud of your cleverness — the worst prison for any man is the one he has himself designed. I know that had it been you, you would have left a backdoor for yourself, as an escape route, but I have always been the more confident one of the pair of us. Overconfident, as you used to say.

I would thank you for leaving me an endless supply of writing material, but I won't, for I cannot send these letters to anyone. I grew bored of making boats out of parchment, though, so I decided to write to you. Knowing you, you will end up here soon enough and give me that old, accusational, disapproving look of yours — the one that has never worked for me, you know?

You're very naive, Albus. Had you been ambitious, you would have not let emotions affect you that day. We would have stood together. Now, you hold the Elder Wand — if there was someone who could claim it from me, it was you — but it will sit in your ludicrously colourful robes, coming out occasionally for repairs and charms at your Doll House. Seriously, Albus? _Professor_?

We could have stood together, yet you let words manipulate you, you let death of a worthless girl get to your heart, and you let it break us. It shames me to say I had let you too close, and you leaving left this gaping hole. Only destruction could fill it.

You know this — what I have become — had never been my, _our_, goal. We just wished for a world where we did not have to hide, where we could claim our place at the top. You pushed me into becoming what I am now. Yet, I cannot say I regret it. It has been delicious, playing with minds of people, even though you had always been better at it.

I'm rambling, aren't I?

I should probably apologise for the Credence fiasco, but you will admit it had that flare of dramatic that you have always enjoyed. I had planned all that with you in mind, thinking it would tempt you into joining the fight, and I must admit, I was surprised at how long you resisted, hiding behind your pawns.

In hindsight, I should have guessed. You did the same thing in the chess matches we had, sitting in the kitchen of Aunt Bathilda's house in the evenings. But Albus, you should have remembered that when playing a dangerous game, you lose pawns. Queenie was an entertaining woman while she lived, almost too good of a person. Although, I regret that I could not take Scamander out.

I had great plans for Godric's Hollow, too. It would have looked brilliant, burning in the Gryffindor-red blaze of Fiendfyre. Alas, I know I will never put a step outside this prison again. It is you that I have to thank for that.

I would say I hate you, but I find myself very entertained with this new turn of life.

Looking forward to seeing you soon. Wear purple!

Your once-lover,

Gellert


	2. Chapter 2

_**A/N:**_ _This is the Seeker from Montrose Magpies writing for QLFC Round 1._

_Prompt: __"The LumberJack Song". Best lyric? "I cut down trees, I wear high heels. Suspendies and a bra. I wish I'd been a girlie, just like my dear Mama." Write about a transgender character._

_Thanks to my team for looking through it!_

_**Word Count:**_ _1235_

_**Disclaimer:**_ _I have no intentions of making money from this story, so all the recognisable stuff belongs to J.K. Rowling._

* * *

**Accepted**

He read the plaque on the door, his gaze settling upon his name.

_Remus._

He hated it. It was a Roman name, a name for men that were rough and tough, nothing like he was at all. He hated that he had to answer to it, to pretend to be a man. Ma had argued that he couldn't share a dorm with girls — she said that he wasn't a woman, and it would be unethical. But he wasn't entirely a man, either. Wasn't it also unfair on him? If anyone ever cared, they didn't voice it.

And deep inside, he knew he was a girl at heart. His gaze always lingered on the pretty dresses worn by mannequins in shop windows, unreachable, yet so close. He'd press his hands against the glass and feel the warmth seeping from his palms. He wanted to be beautiful; he wanted to be himself.

He wished he could throw away the leather army boots his dad had purchased for him, just before he had come to this school. Instead, he wanted to get those powder-blue heels he had seen his cousin wear at his aunt's wedding the summer before, clicking as she walked. He longed for the poise he'd seen in the delicate arch of her neck and the lithe gait she'd mastered that would make his hips sway.

It wasn't just about the materialistic things, though. He wanted the world to see him as a girl. He wanted to not wear the baggy clothes that his Ma forced upon him, to hide the curves that were just forming. He… he couldn't put what he wanted in words. He just wanted to live freely.

He hated how he referred to himself as 'he', even inside his head. It had been ingrained in him so strong that he had to present to the world as a boy, and he knew that if he ever came to accept himself as what he was — _she was_ — he would never be able to go back to being seen as a man.

It was easier to simply pretend, as much as it hurt him. The alternative would be ridicule and rejection at best. At worst… Remus refused to think about that.

Remus shook the thoughts away and entered the dorm that would be his home for the duration of his time in boarding school.

He would live here with three boys. He had no idea how he was going to manage if he was going to be able to cope. At home, he was safe, cocooned away from the rest of the world — but it had failed to turn him into a butterfly.

Remus couldn't help but snort. No — he was a _moth_.

"What's so funny?"

The speaker was sprawled on one of the beds, grey eyes squinting up at him, an eyebrow raised. He had long hair. Remus hated him instantly — his mother wouldn't let him grow his hair beyond a couple of inches, claiming it would be too feminine. It didn't look feminine on hair-guy, not in the slightest.

"Nothing," Remus mumbled, looking around. Two of the beds were already taken, one by the boy, another by a box tipped on its side, clothes and sports equipment spilling out.

"I'm Sirius." He stood and extended a hand to shake. "James — he's that guy," Sirius pointed to the other bed with a box on it, "he's in the bathroom. He has a bit of a hair problem."

He snickered. Remus felt a small smile forming on his face and ducked his head. Hadn't he just told himself he hated Siri—the hair-guy?

"There's a Peter," Sirius carried on, "and I'm not expecting much of him. Peters always are boring. Do you have some boxes to bring up?" Remus nodded. "Awesome! Where to?"

Remus dumped the few things he had on the free bed next to Sirius and made a follow-me gesture, leading him to the parking lot where his Ma was waiting. He realised things wouldn't be boring with Sirius around, and he had an inkling he would have no privacy, either.

He grinned as Sirius began babbling about this James's alleged hair disaster. For some reason, he was okay with that.

* * *

It had been three months since Remus had moved in. He had become friends with all three of the guys, and he'd kept up his male facade really well.

Sirius was loud and obnoxious, having no sense of personal space. James loved pulling pranks and was an incorrigible flirt. Peter was quiet and usually simply trailed after them, but he was a good conversationalist.

He had _friends_, and though he wasn't living as himself, entirely, Remus felt more content than he ever had.

Of course, he jinxed himself as soon as he thought that.

He entered the quiet dorm, books tucked under his arm. It had been a tiring afternoon, and Remus was glad for the silence. He loved the guys, but they were by no means _peaceful_.

Only, the dorm wasn't empty. Sirius was sitting on his bed, looking unusually still and thoughtful. Sirius never sat still, and Remus couldn't help but worry.

Sirius's eyes snapped to his as Remus took another step into the dorm.

"Are you okay, Sirius?"

"Yeah. Yeah," Sirius's voice cracked, and Remus was concerned. Before he could ask another question, though, Sirius spoke again. "Are you hiding something from us? _Me_?"

Remus froze. Surely… But when he looked into Sirius's eyes, he could tell that Sirius _knew_. He wasn't sure what exactly Sirius knew, or how he knew it, but he did. Perhaps he'd found one of the books Remus had been reading… Remus swallowed. Perhaps he'd even found Remus's journal.

"I-I'll pack my things," Remus mumbled, staring at his boots, the very ones that he hated. He heard Sirius stand up and flinched, not sure what would happen. What he didn't expect was arms to snake around his torso.

"You're not going anywhere, you idiot."

Remus wasn't sure what to think, but he let Sirius guide him to a bed. He listened as Sirius told him how he had stumbled on the diary, and how he had read it, and… Remus blanked out the rest.

He was started out of his thoughts as Sirius poked him. "Now it's your turn. Talk, and don't you dare hide anything from me. You're my best friend, and I accept you, however you are."

With a deep breath, Remus talked.

"You should have told us," Sirius said quietly once Remus had exhausted himself talking. "We're your friends. But I don't blame." Remus wiped the wetness on his cheeks and gave Sirius a small smile. "And I _know_ James and Peter will understand, too."

Remus nodded, but he couldn't get rid of the fear that suddenly gripped him, that the other two would kick him out.

The door opened, then, smacking loudly into the wall, as it usually did when James entered, and Remus felt his heartbeat speed up. Peter trailed in behind and gave Sirius and him a questioning look. Remus ducked his head even as Sirius turned to face them.

"James, Peter" Sirius started, his voice resolute. "Meet my friend Remy. She's a nerd, but she's a _good_ nerd. And she lives here. With us."

There was a long silence. _Remy_ finally dared to look up, wanting to be done with the rejection. But there was only understanding and acceptance in _her_ friends' eyes, and for the first time, _she_ felt at home.


	3. Chapter 3

_**A/N:**_ _This is the Seeker from Montrose Magpies writing for QLFC Round 2._

_Prompt: Write about a character(s) that seems conniving and manipulative but aren't bad people_

_Thanks to my team for looking through it!_

_**Word Count:**_ _1096_

_**Disclaimer:**_ _I have no intentions of making money from this story, so all the recognisable stuff belongs to J.K. Rowling._

* * *

**Wrongly Placed Blame**

After two mornings of not dragging his cart to the village market — not getting out of the room, even, really — his mother pulls him from the bed just as the first few rays of sun fall through his window and drags him out. For a diminutive woman, she has too much strength, though it's not as if Douglas protests too much. He is shoved into the bathroom, and he lets his body go through the everyday routine — shower, clothes, food — without letting his mind wander. Because that would mean sorrow, and Douglas knows he will collapse on the floor, too weak to stand again.

As he pushes his plate away, his mother shoos him out of the house, and his younger brother is waiting there already, the cart loaded of fresh produce and strapped to the horse already. The younger man grins at him, eyes squinting as the sun hits his face. "Mum got ya up?"

Douglas makes a noncommittal noise and walks over to pat his horse. Mounting over, he looks over his shoulder. "Let's get going."

It is too soon that they reach the marketplace, and Douglas lets the squabble of housewives bargaining good-naturedly, the shopkeepers calling out the prices, the general chaos, wash over him, not thinking about how he had met—

Douglas halts that stream of thought there, getting off his horse, and walks over to help his brother who is already busy setting up the stall.

Soon, he's too busy arguing prices, weighing the greens, packing, to think of anything. That all stops, though, when she walks past. Their gaze locks, and though Douglas knows his eyes must be filled with accusation and hurt, hers don't hold any remorse.

He wants to ask why. Why had she forced her daughter with him — for he knows that Minerva, sweet Minerva, isn't capable of hurting him the way she had. He _knows_ it must surely have been the woman who has now averted her gaze and is walking past hurriedly. Isobel McGonagall.

He wonders then. Had Minerva ever even liked him? Had she just always pretended to, because her mother had pushed her? Was there someone else, who she had eloped for? Why had it been him that Mrs McGonagall had manipulated into falling in love with her wonderful daughter?

He remembers how, the first time she had brought Minerva to the marketplace, Isobel had introduced them, gently pushing her daughter ahead to let Douglas kiss her knuckles. How she'd had this mischievous gleam in her eye when after buying all that she needed, she had said Minerva wasn't used to grocery shopping, not used to picking all the things up, and that she herself was feeling a bit sick, so could Douglas drop them off to her house?

He was asked to stay for breakfast, despite saying he'd already eaten — "_Oh we have some carrot cake leftover. You certainly cannot refuse cake?"_ — and then asked to come over for dinner someday because he had refused the breakfast. "_Bring your mother, too, young man. It's been a long time since I last sat down with her."_

Minerva had stayed silent then, a light blush dusting her cheeks. Had that been there because of being forced with a man she didn't want? Douglas doesn't know, and he isn't too keen to find out.

At dinner, they'd been told to go have a walk — "_It is such a pleasant evening. Surely you don't want to listen to old ladies' rambles, anyway."_ His mother had cried out in mock outrage at being called old, that she hadn't even married off her sons yet, and the older women had laughed, as if sharing a joke the other two were not privy to.

The conversation had picked up, during the walk, even after the stilted start. And talking to the witty, intelligent girl, Douglas had found himself just a bit in love.

Had Minerva ever felt that? The lightest of flutters, the barest of warmth seeping through as she laughed? Or had she, with some other man?

Douglas doesn't know. He thinks not, because why then, would she send back a letter that he found sitting on the porch of his house, with the ring with the tiny diamond he had been slightly ashamed of. The ring that he had put on her the evening before, as they traced the path they had walked down the very first time. With a few words enough to shatter him: "I'm sorry Douglas, but I cannot do this."

He had hated her a bit then, he is ashamed to admit. But more than that, as soon as his mind cleared enough to connect the dots, he had hated Isobel for her scheming that left him — and Minerva, too, he thinks — hurt. He _hates_ Isobel.

* * *

"_Mother," Minerva said, her voice small, as she walked into the kitchen. She wasn't very close to the older woman, but she knew, if there was someone who could help her then, it was her. "How did get to know Dad?"_

_Isobel had looked up when she walked in, and at her question, she wiped her hands off her apron and smiled. "I knew I would fall in love with him as soon as I saw him. I had been visiting a Muggleborn friend, and she knew his brother. She helped. I don't think I could have done it without him." Her smile turned mischievous then. "Is there someone I should know about, young lady?"_

_Minerva ducked her head, cheeks ablaze. "Uh… yeah? I-I don't know how to approach him, though. Will you help?" She started as Isobel placed a hand on her shoulder._

"_Of course, I will." And Minerva couldn't help but talk all about the hazel-eyed man whose quick wit and easy nature had drawn her in._

* * *

_A choking sob escaped her, and Isobel looked up from where she had been knitting, sitting in the armchair. "Mother." The word came out in a broken voice, and Isobel got up, wrapping her in her arms._

"_What's wrong?"_

"_I do-don't think I can do this. You-You gave up magic for Father, but it's… I… I can't. And… what if he doesn't accept, either?"_

_Her mother tried to talk her out of it, to change her mind, but Minerva was been resolute. In the end, Isobel gave in. "You know, whatever you do, I love you, even though I haven't been the best mother ever. Know this, though, that he will be left broken, too. God bless him."_


	4. a little too late for celebration

_**A/N:**_ _This is the Seeker from Montrose Magpies writing for QLFC Round 4._

_Prompt: The Yoruba Dance from Nigeria; write about a character who celebrates small moments in life_

_Thanks to my team for looking through it!_

_**Word Count:**_ _1189_

_**Disclaimer:**_ _I have no intentions of making money from this story, so all the recognisable stuff belongs to J.K. Rowling._

* * *

**a little too late for celebration**

Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, Order of Merlin (First Class), Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards, and Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot celebrated big moments — the defeat of Dark Lords, the Hogwarts Sorting Ceremony, the birth of each magical child, even if he didn't know of them at the time, and, most importantly, the release of a chocolate frog card with his name on it. He lived for the life-changing moments that would go down in the history books, changing the world one bright spark at a time.

_Just_ Albus, though, lived differently. Plain ol' Albus lived for the small moments. Discovering the shape of a cool scar in the days following a battle was always good (he had one on his knee that was a map of the London Underground) and as a reward for surviving the wound, he always went out for ice cream. A good hair day — which didn't occur as often as he wished, despite what someone else might think — was celebrated with a shopping spree. The better the hair, the brighter the colours. It was not Albus's fault that he was colour-blind; he didn't regret buying vivid fabrics to make up for the lack that he himself could see. It was okay to be selfish sometimes, and the reactions of his staff were always hilarious. On a particularly good day, he could inspire Severus to take pains to avoid him in the corridors if his robes were vibrantly patterned.

He loved the pranks students pulled, and for every prank that didn't get caught by the staff, he discretely handed points to the house in question, usually Gryffindor. (The Weasley twins were the latest culprits and they were exceptionally good at avoiding patrolling prefects and professors.)

But Albus's greatest love was sweets. The second he'd been switched onto solid foods he'd discovered that he had a sweet tooth that could rival no other's, which had not been a problem when his father had been around. Percival had always indulged Albus, ignoring Kendra's half-hearted protests of him becoming overly excitable when consuming sugar. Overactive Albus simply meant accidental magic and both his parents loved to see that in action.

Contrary to popular belief about sweet-lovers, Albus wasn't overly fond of chocolate. His one true love was hard candy, though he really liked to try any new, eccentric sweet out in the market.

One of the reasons getting his very own Chocolate Frog card was his biggest accomplishment was the privilege that came alongside it: the sweet-manufacturers would send him a goodie-bag full of their upcoming sugar-laden inventions, and Albus loved it. If he found a specific type of sweet that he became partial to, Albus would go out to Honeydukes the day it became available to the public and splurge.

Sweets were also the reason Albus willingly ventured out to the Muggle world. Getting out of the half-Muggle Godric's Hollow had been a relief, despite his change of heart about Muggles, and Albus had been sure he would never go back, but Merlin! He had been sent Bubbaloo Liquid Filled Sour Cherry Bubble Gum by the newly-married James Potter as a gag gift for Christmas. Albus had fallen in love, and he had to get more. His guilty pleasure had become popping gum and he could only imagine the look on Minerva's face if she ever caught him at it. (It should be noted that it is fiendishly difficult to get gum out of one's beard.)

From there, he had discovered Jelly Beans, Sherbet Lemons, Bon Bons, Pear Drops, Cola Bottles, and Drumsticks… the trip to the Muggle Candy store had become a constant in Albus' schedule.

Back in the Wizarding world, the 2nd of May dawned bright and shiny, and Albus descended to his office, yawning widely, to find a new goodie-bag of sweets lying on his table. Suddenly wide-awake, he rushed to the bag, pulling out a box of what looked like … Jelly Beans. What ingenious wizard had stolen the idea from the Muggles and come up with the concept of wizarding Jelly Beans?

He put his reading-glasses on — they were charmed to be summoned back to the table when not perched on his nose, because Albus lost them too often to count, and fishing for his wand just to summon them was exhausting.

The box read: _Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans._ It sounded a promising concept to Albus, so without further ado (which wasn't Albus' usual style, he normally prefered as much ado as he could get away with), he opened the box and popped one into his mouth.

And promptly spat it out.

It had tasted like dirt. Who in their brilliant mind had decided to make a _dirt-flavoured_ candy?

Albus did a double-take, then, and went to the box. The smaller print told the man that Bertie Bott had actually intended for the box to contain _every _flavour. How very stupid.

But most mischevious.

A little cautious, Albus selected a bean that appeared to have some promise, sunshine yellow in colour. He bit just the corner of it, and as the banana-flavour flooded his mouth, Albus let out a sigh of relief. Well, hadn't been too bad, had it?

Little did he know, it was to be his only good-flavoured bean for a long, long time.

Albus wasn't sure _why_ he was so unlucky. Rotten Egg, Flobberworm, Polyjuice, Grass, Liver, Tripe, and on a particularly bad day, a Vomit-flavoured bean. Albus had started keeping a tiny bean-bin on his table after he'd had to use one-too-many Mending Charms on the dents his bean-spitting had left in his table.

But Albus didn't give up. He would not rest until he had tasted at least another good bean — the Banana-bean had proved it was possible — and the day it happened, he would celebrate. He decided that he would celebrate with a cake the same flavour as the good bean had been. In fact, he gave his personal House-elf an order to do that in case he forgot.

* * *

Harry had gone to retrieve his cloak, and Albus knew very well that he might not come back alive. This was a perfect opportunity for Draco to try, and for Severus to do what Albus had asked him to do. Albus was fine with the approach of his impending death, though; it had been his decision, after all. And honestly, it was just retribution for his greed. Albus was pretty sure that was his most fatal flaw.

With a sigh, Albus got up, his hand reaching out for a box of beans sitting on his table. He fished out for one at random and popped it into his mouth without concern — a first in a very long time. Usually, Albus was very choosy with his beans, despite how his selections were always the worst.

A cherry-flavour spread on his tongue, and Albus couldn't help the smile on his face.

* * *

The next morning, when Minerva came up to his office, there was a cherry-flavoured cake sitting on Albus' desk.


	5. Chapter 5

_**A/N:**_ _This is the Seeker from Montrose Magpies writing for QLFC Round 4._

_Prompt: "We're a clumsy family, we make mistakes." Russell Howard_

_Thanks to my team for looking through it!_

_**Word Count:**_ _1007_

_**Disclaimer:**_ _I have no intentions of making money from this story, so all the recognisable stuff belongs to J.K. Rowling._

* * *

**One more time**

_Crash!_

What used to be a bottle of milk lay in pieces on the brick floor. Five-year-old Dennis felt his lower lip tremble, even though it had been his older brother who had caused the crash. He saw Colin bent down and reach for the broken pieces, but before he could touch a shiny, milk-stained shard of glass, their father caught him around the middle and pulled him back. Dennis felt his eyes widen; he hadn't even noticed the man arrive.

"Are you hurt somewhere, son?" Dad was kneeling down in front of Colin, and the seven-year-old shook his head.

"I'm sorry, Daddy."

Dennis shuffled his feet. "'M sorry, too."

The older man shook his head and let out a chuckle. "You both are okay, and that's all that matters. Now c'mere." He opened his arms, and both the boys ran into his embrace, and he kissed the top of their heads.

"But—" Colin started to speak, but their father shushed him.

"It's glass. It was gonna break sometime. And, we're a clumsy family, we make mistakes."

It was a line their father repeated often, because both the boys were that—immensely clumsy. They broke things too often, but their father never let them feel guilty about it, unless they had done it knowingly.

"Now, what are two little boys doing up at… hmm… seven in the morning in the cowshed?"

Dennis ducked his head, but Colin spoke again. His brother was very brave, Dennis decided. "It's Father's Day, and we wanted to help." The older boy's voice was still a bit wet, and Dennis' eyes filled with tears again, but then he felt the rumble of his father's laughter shake his little body, and he couldn't help but giggle.

"You both are too precious." The man smacked a wet kiss on each of their cheeks, and the boys ran away, giggling.

* * *

_Thump!_

The book fell down, and to his great horror, Dennis heard a page tear. Colin was going to kill him.

As if summoned by thoughts, his older brother came into their shared room, his eyes widening at the giant tome at Dennis' feet.

"Is that my Potions' book?"

Dennis gulped. "I-I can explain." Colin raised an eyebrow. "It's just, you-you're going to a di-different world now, and I—I just wanted to know a little bit about it?"

Colin's face softened, and he walked further into the room, coming to a stop next to where Dennis stood. He laid a hand on the younger boy's shoulder, and Dennis couldn't help but look up. "You're gonna be a wizard, too, 'kay Den? You're gonna get a letter and come to Hogwarts in two years—no, don't give me that look, I've seen you do magic. Right now, though, you can read all of my books as much as you want to."

Dennis bent down to pick the book up, and held it open to where a page was torn nearly halfway though. "I ruined it, though."

Colin took one look at it and let out a laugh. "You're fine; it's my least favourite book. And I probably will be able to fix it with a spell I read about in the Charms book!"

Dennis' eyes widened at that, wishing to ask his brother if he could see Colin's attempt at magic. He stopped, though, for why would Colin let him near his magical things when he'd already ruined one? (Despite what the other boy had just said). As if knowing what he was thinking, Colin nudged him. "It's fine, Den, I promise. We're a clumsy family, we make mistakes."

Dennis groaned. It had been bad enough with Dad saying it, but now Colin had taken to repeating Dad's sentence. "You're terrible."

Colin laughed. "Love you too! Now, what do you say to seeing some magic?"

Dennis couldn't say no to that now, could he?

* * *

_Crash!_

In his excitement to get up and join his brother at the Gryffindor table, he had gotten up too quickly, and the three-legged stool he had been seated on had fallen down. A laugh rose from the student body, and Dennis ducked his head, meekly walking over to the table his brother was sitting at.

He slipped into the seat Colin had saved for him—the older boy had told him Dennis would land in the lions' house, but Dennis hadn't been sure; he was not brave—and mumbled out an apology for embarrassing his brother.

"What for?" Colin nudged him and gave him a smile when Dennis finally looked up.

"I bet no one has had a more embarrassing Sorting!"

"Tell you a secret? I fell into the lake."

Dennis stared at his brother in surprise, sure he was making it up. But his brother's eyes told him Colin was not lying—he had a tick that Dennis knew all too well. He tried, he tried very hard, but he let out a snort at that. Colin shot him a betrayed look.

"Sorry, but it's so funny to picture!"

"Well, yeah." Colin gave him another smile. "We're a clumsy family, we make mistakes."

Dennis groaned. Maybe Gryffindor was a mistake. His brother was going to kill him with that sentence.

* * *

Dennis stumbled as he rose from the bar stool, a glass of firewhisky in his hand, too drunk to see where to place his foot. Two steps later, he crashed into what was presumably the leg of a table. He tried to keep his balance but failed, falling forward.

Someone caught his arm, preventing him from faceplanting on the grimy floor of Hog's Head, but the glass he had been holding wasn't that lucky. It met the floor with a crash, firewhisky already spilled on its descent down, and shattered into a thousand pieces.

Dennis stared at the broken shards in complete horror. They brought up one of the million memories he had been trying to suppress for past two months, and Dennis felt his eyes moisten. What he wouldn't give to have Colin repeat that stupid sentence his dad used to say one more time.


	6. Chapter 6

_**A/N:**_ _This is the Seeker from Montrose Magpies writing for QLFC Round 5._

_Prompt: __(7-Polytype Dimension) Incorporate the theme of 7 within your story (you can take this in any way you like — seven objects of importance, the meaning behind the number, etc)_

_Thanks to my team for looking through it!_

_**Word Count:**_ _1124_

_**Disclaimer:**_ _I have no intentions of making money from this story, so all the recognisable stuff belongs to J.K. Rowling._

* * *

Another World, but no Him

The seven planets, apart from the earth, aligning on the day he turned seventy-seven… it was a one-in-a-million chance, and George had been lucky to have it fall into his lap, because the three sevens—the two most magical numbers of all in play—were exactly what he needed to make his device work. He had taken his chance.

"Fred, is that you?"

Coming to work in the Department of Mysteries at the ripe age of 70, the Weasleys Wizard's Wheezes business passed on to his son and nephew, had been one of his best and worst ideas.

There had been a riot. Letting the crazy, stupid, foolish but brilliant George Weasley into the department where he was most likely to blow something up? A lot of people had doubted his credibility.

That had been seven years back, and since then, George had proven his smarts, rising up to one of the highest levels among the Unspeakables—not that he was allowed to talk about it with anyone outside of the department.

The man in front of him was just as old and looked just like him, lanky and slightly bent at the backbone, red hair greying around the edges, balding at the top. Age had not treated him very well, either.

"Fred," George repeated, his voice cracking, but it was just loud enough to get the other man's attention.

"Fred?" the other man echoed, and George felt the doubt in his heart settle. This was definitely his twin.

"Merlin, it's been so long since I've tried to find a way to get you back. I—" George rambled, walking as fast as he could towards his long-lost twin.

"Fred," the man spoke, his eyes containing the same haunting look George saw the mirror reflecting back at him every day. "You're supposed to be dead."

George's eyes widened, and he looked around, recognising the place as the woods behind the Burrow. Idly, his statistics-oriented mind counted the seven trees in the clearing he stood in—another play at the magical number?

After the flash from the device he had built, he had appeared here, but… he felt very, very confused.

"Who are you?"

The other man, who was claiming to not be his twin, halted from where he had been closing the distance between them. "Fred? It's me, George."

George shook his head. "No, I'm George. Fred, stop playing these games, please."

"Have you gone bonkers?"

"Here, wait a second, you have the whole ear. I have the hole. Geddit?"

The other man gave him a confused look. "What hole?"

"Snape's Sectumsempra?" The confusion in the other man's face didn't vanish. "War? Voldemort?"

"What does Professor Voldemort have to do with any of this? What are you talking about?"

George facepalmed. He thought of the logical possibilities, and only one stuck out. Instead of bringing him a version of Fred, the device had either taken him to another reality or brought him a person from there… another reality where a George existed, but a Fred did not.

"Okay, Not-Fred. You and I know the history very differently, it seems. We're from different worlds. C'mon, let's take a walk."

Apparently, his alternate self was either as curious or as stupid as he himself, because without another question, he followed him. George let his feet guide them along the path he had trodden too many a time to count, thinking through all the arithmetic calculations and trying to figure out what exactly had happened. He stopped just as the Burrow came into sight, hidden in trees where they wouldn't be visible to anyone in the house or the front yard. One gaze at the house, and he knew this structure had never been burnt down to the ground, that their home had never faced Bellatrix's wrath.

That lowered the list of possibilities to only one, though. It was him who had been sent to another reality.

"I come from a world where Voldemort waged a war on the Wizarding World, supported by the dark purebloods. Fred died, 57 years back, in the last battle. We won, but I lost everything. I read a myth that there exist seven parallel universes, and there was an opportunity, so I…"

It had been a long time since George had last spoken of this, but today, his voice did not waver. He knew that if there was someone who would understand his loss, it was another George who had lost another Fred.

"Seems you actually succeeded somewhat in building the device, then?" Not-Fred's voice was bitter and it made George turn.

"You tried, as well, then?"

"Dad died fighting Dark Lord Grindelwald's forces—was he not around in your world?"

"He was the Dark Lord before Voldemort. Dumbledore defeated him."

"Wow, Dumbledore was the bad guy here—Grindelwald's right hand. After Dad, Mum was losing her mind to grief, and Fred and I had to do something. We tried, but we failed, and I lost him, too, in the backslash."

Unlike George, Not-Fred's voice broke, and a tear slipped down his cheek. George placed a hand on his shoulder. "And you blame yourself, don't you?"

His alternate self met his eyes, and George knew that he would have denied, had it been anyone else. Looking into his own self's face, though, Not-Fred nodded his head. "I wish it had been me."

"I know." George let out a sigh. "Look at the pair of us—if your Fred was anything like mine, he would have been shaking his head, lamenting at the loss of all the opportunities of mischief we were missing out on because of stupid emotions."

Not-Fred huffed out a laugh. "True."

For a heartbeat, George thought about staying here, being the replacement for Fred for this alternate version of him. He could be whole again.

Deep in his heart, though, he knew it would never work. This other man and him were the exact same person in two different worlds, and neither of them was a Fred. He had his own world, his own family to go back to, and coming here today had been an eye-opener. It was perhaps the seven planets' telling him there was no Fred to get back, and he had to make his way in the world alone.

There would be another day for that, though. Going back didn't need the seven planets in alignment, considering he had built a safeck back-door which would activate in seven days' time—the number was simply too powerful to work with for someone who knew how to do that.

He just put his arm around his other version's shoulder and led him down to the pond, where they sat and gazed into the depths of the water, each silently mourning for the lost half of themselves.

There would be another six days to create mayhem in this world, because what were two Weasley twins—even if they were both George's—without a little disaster?


	7. Chapter 7

_**A/N:**_ _This is the Seeker from Montrose Magpies writing for QLFC Round 6._

_Prompt: Star-Crossed Lovers. Write about a romance that's doomed to fail._

_Thanks to my team for looking through it!_

_**Word Count:**_ _1763_

_**Disclaimer:**_ _I have no intention of making money from this story, so all the recognizable stuff belongs to J.K. Rowling._

_The credit for the name 'Simões Slytherin' goes to my cousin, Arianna Waters. Also, this story uses some headcanons we share, which she has also used in her story, 'A Lamenting Tale of Love'._

* * *

**Loved and Lost**

"I will not be able to hold your Father for long, daughter." Her mother pressed a kiss to Rowena's forehead and gave her a small smile. "Go, I wish you a good life with your lover."

"Thank you, Mother. I bid thee farewell."

Rowena hugged her and the queen left. With Helga's help, Rowena changed out of the wedding gown the other maids had dressed her in and into a vest and breeches—men's clothes. She put her boots on and went to the window, looking down to where Salazar was standing, his wand already out.

He gave her a nod and Rowena climbed onto the ledge. Taking a deep breath to ready herself, she jumped.

"_Arresto Momentum!"_ The beam from Salazar's spell hit her and the spell slowed her fall. She bounced on the cushioned ground a few moments later. "Good to see you again," he said, then he wiggled his eyebrows, leering at her inappropriate outfit, "_Princess_."

She elbowed him gently, then grabbed his collar and pulled him down into a kiss. "You are most amusing, peasant. Now, help Helga down, quickly."

They made quick work of Levitating the other woman to the ground, two wands working in sync. The red-haired maid huffed and then scowled at Rowena.

"I had to hold myself back from screaming. That was terrifying!"

"You are simply scared of heights, Helga. Now come, we must go. Hopefully, Godric will be waiting for us near the forest."

The three of them moved quickly and silently, making use of the shadows formed in the dusk. A simple charm of Rowena's removed their footprints in the snow. Soon, they were at the edge of the forest.

"You are late, m'lady," Godric said, smirking at Rowena from where he was already perched on the back of a horse. "What should I make of this, a bride making her husband-to-be wait for so long?"

"Oh, hush you, you buffoon," Rowena said, scowling at him. Despite her initial reservations of the Prince, he had proved to be a wonderful ally, and dare she say it, even a friend. Never in her wildest dreams had Rowena thought she would ever like any other royal than her mother, but here she was, able to join with her lover only with the help of a Prince that she'd initially thought ill of. "It is only because of Helga that I bear your presence."

Godric gave her a knowing grin, then climbed down from his steed to greet Helga.

"We should move soon," said Rowena, "Mother said there will only be so much time before someone notices the absence of the bride and the groom." With that, she walked up to her horse and mounted it, the others doing the same, and soon they were moving through the forest and away from the Ravenclaw castle.

They were just at the boundary of the kingdom when a booming voice sounded all around them. Her father must have cast a spell to make his voice so loud it could reach them even leagues away.

The King spoke: "You have deceived me, Daughter, and you run, blind in love for one not worthy of a Princess. I curse, he who thou love shall lose the goodness thou admire, and he shall fall to the Dark. So mote it be."

Rowena felt a shiver run down her spine, but she carried on, following her lover and her friends out of the kingdom.

* * *

They had settled in a place Godric knew of from one of his past adventures—a castle that lay in ruins, a thick forest surrounding the place. It had been difficult to fight through the wilderness, but they were safe for the moment, and Rowena was sure no one whom her father had sent in pursuit would be able to find them.

It took them a few months, but the magic wielders were able to bring the castle back to grandeur. Helga had started a garden, bringing in wild plants from the forest and had changed a piece of land into a crop-field to produce for them. Godric and Rowena had summoned their house-elves, and the place had come together wonderfully.

"What shall we do with such a big place, though, dearest Rowena?" Salazar asked her one morning, making Rowena look up from where she had been reading one of the scrolls she had brought with her. "I never asked you, but I am sure you have an objective in mind."

Rowena pursed her lips. "I do, dear Salazar. Only a privileged few get to the opportunity to study magic beyond the spells they require for the family craft, and then also, it is usually only the male children. I wish to change that. I wish to create a place for learning—a school of witchcraft and wizardry."

"That is a noble idea, but who will teach them?"

"You are a master of potions, Salazar. You were the best in the village, and even my family's healers bought potions from you. Helga knows her way around the plants. Godric knows warfare the best—spells for defence and offence, and how to wield the weapons. I know spells and enchantments. Together, we can teach all of this to the new generations."

That evening, they discussed it with their two friends, and the team of four worked to make that idea a reality. Through this time, Rowena ignored the changes in Salazar's behaviour, resolute in her decision to ignore her father's curse and its potential consequences.

The curse continued to blossom regardless, and slowly, the darkness consumed Salazar.

* * *

A year later, Rowena gave birth to a son, Simões Slytherin. A month after that, Hogwarts opened to wizards and witches from all around the land.

The number was very small, five wizards and three witches, but the founders of Hogwarts did their best to impart the knowledge. They all had favourites, but there was a pupil Salazar had an aversion to—Alexanda Dayton, a daughter of two non-magicals. She couldn't brew a potion if her life depended on it, so thinking that the cause, Rowena paid no heed to it.

She cherished the evenings spent in the company of her lover and son, and later also with their daughter who was born a year and a half after her first child's birth, and the nights she spent with Salazar. But some days, when she lay awake in her bed next to him, she wondered how long could she ignore the coldness that grew within him.

New pupils came to Hogwarts every summer. Rowena held each child she taught close to her heart, but there were always a few Salazar disliked with a passion. Over the years, the clever witch noticed a pattern—those who Salazar hated always came from non-magical families.

She brought it up, and they argued. She managed to convince him; he kissed her; they smiled at each other and forgot about it.

Yet, the dislike for the Muggleborn, as Salazar liked to call them, continued to fester. Godric and Helga noticed it, too, and it created a rift between the Founders.

"They are abominations!" Salazar said one time when they argued about the subject. "They are filth who should either be turned slaves or executed."

"Salazar!" Rowena was scandalised—this was not a Salazar she recognized. She had fallen in love with a commoner—a man who was kind to all. The man who stood in front of her was full of hatred for innocent children, and in Rowena's ears, her father's curse echoed.

The darkness showed in other things, too. Rowena confronted him about the Draught of Living Death, and Salazar argued that his invention allowed mercy from pain. She asked him about the curses he used in practice duels and taught to his kids, and he argued they had to know how to defend themselves. She asked why he spent his nights in the dungeons, and he made excuses for his actions, but he started coming back to their bed after nightfall.

Rowena fell sick a month later. Her lover and friends tried every cure they could think of, but her condition continued to deteriorate. It was difficult to manage all her duties and take care of two children, and her friends told her to take it slow. Still overburdened and weak, she failed to notice the distance that continued to increase between her lover and herself once again or the darkness that continued to grow within Salazar.

A few months later, her son stood in the queue of pupils to be sorted, and Rowena smiled for the first time in what felt like forever. That evening, Salazar questioned the presence of three Muggleborns, and Godric argued it was their right as witches and wizards. Salazar drew his wand and sent a curse at him; Godric retalied, and the two duelled. Salazar's curses grew increasingly dark. A red beam hit Godric, and he fell to the ground, his screams echoing around the study the Founders shared.

Salazar dropped a spell a few moments later and turned to look at Rowena. "I can no longer stay here, if the three of you choose to entertain the scum!" Then, donning on the cloak that sat on his table, he walked out of the room.

Rowena called after him, asking him to stop. He didn't, and the woman ran after him, only for her legs to give way a few steps later. She fell to the ground, sobs racking her entire body. A little while later, Helga slid down to the floor next to her, a hand coming to rest on her shoulder.

"I am sorry, my dear friend. But, we all knew something like this would happen—this is not the same Salazar you fell in love with."

The curse—it had consumed the goodness in him, just like her father had said. And even though Rowena wished he would come back, deep in her mind, she knew it was better this terrible shade of her lover stayed away.

* * *

Rowena continued to weaken, the illness eating at her strength, finally leaving her bedridden. In her last moments, she thought of her lover—the man she had fallen in love and later eloped with. She wished he were here to hold her hand, to wipe her tears of pain, to caress her forehead, but she knew that man was no more.

Her father had killed him slowly, taking him away from Rowena, and she wondered if it would have been better to not love him at all.

Thinking of the man she had loved and lost, Rowena breathed her last.


	8. Chapter 8

_**A/N:**_ _This is the Seeker from Montrose Magpies writing for QLFC Round 7._

_Prompt: Write about someone getting injured_

_Thanks to my team for looking through it!_

_**Word Count:**_ _1395_

_**Disclaimer:**_ _I have no intention of making money from this story, so all the recognisable stuff belongs to J.K. Rowling._

* * *

**Pain**

Minerva closed her eyes and tried to concentrate, ignoring the tears that fell down her cheeks. She had been the best witch at Transfiguration that Hogwarts had seen for a long time—Albus Dumbledore had told her that himself—why couldn't she manage this?

Logically, Minerva knew she was being too hard on herself. Becoming an Animagus was no easy feat. She could count on one hand the number of registered Animagi, and though she was sure the actual number must be higher, she was a Transfiguration prodigy. She could do it. She had to.

Shoving away the thoughts that attempted to take over her mind back into their dark corner, Minerva closed her eyes and tried yet again. She had been working at it for hours and she still hadn't progressed any further than she had done under Dumbledore's guidance. All she'd managed to achieve was transfiguring her hand into a cat's paw.

She was reminded of Dumbledore's words: "_self-transfiguration is a dangerous branch of magic, Minerva. Be patient and be calm and you will achieve your goals. As they say, slow and steady wins the race."_

As much as he might have spoken true, Minerva needed to focus on something at this moment and practicing this seemingly impossible magic was the only way she could keep her thoughts from Dougal_._ More specifically, from the evening three days back, when she had left an envelope on his doorstep, containing the ring she had accepted the evening before along with a note on how she had changed her mind: that it would not work out. It had been the right decision, no matter how much pain it brought her.

She pushed Dougal out of her mind again and took in a few deep breaths. Detaching herself from the emotions and focusing on her form—a tabby cat—she concentrated on changing her left arm. Slowly, she felt her limb change form. She felt the fur spouting from under her skin and how her arm grew shorter, her hand turning into a paw. She could feel how she would be able to unsheath her claws on instinct and how lithe yet powerful the limb felt.

It never failed to awe her, how magic was able to give them a new form altogether. Once she was sure she could hold the transfiguration, she opened her eyes and gave the forelimb a look over, a semblance of a smile forming on her lips as she admired it.

* * *

Minerva pushed herself, spending hours at a time on practicing, and she steadily grew closer to achieving the complete form.

She finally managed it one morning, a couple weeks after her fallout with Dougal, and as Minerva stretched in her cat form on her bed, she felt happy for the first time in a long while.

She practiced switching back and forth a few times, just to ensure she actually had mastered her Animagi form, and then jumped down to the floor, intent on going out and having an adventure. It was an amusing thought.

It would be the first time she had left the house since she'd returned the ring to Dougal, having not felt up to it previously, but she was sure she would be fine leaving the house as a cat.

Once outside, Minerva took a moment to bask in the sun. She had an east-facing window and her room was bathed in the first rays of sunlight every morning. It was not, however, the same as being out and about in the open. She trotted around, pawing at the grass, sniffing things—her senses were so different as an animal—it was strange to view the world from a much lower perspective: barely a foot off the ground.

Almost unconsciously, she made her way towards the village marketplace. Once she realised where she was, she panicked for a moment before realising no one would see her as anything but a simple tabby cat.

The town was bustling, with villagers rushing from store to store completing errands, children shrieking with joy as they chased after each other up and down the narrow cobbled lanes. Market stalls lined the streets and a general air of delight about the town at the warm June day. She could smell so much: fish fresh from the sea that morning, warm loaves of bread lined up neatly at the bakers, and even the honeysuckle that crawled up the wall of the Mayor's Manor at the top of town.

She pawed at the fallen apple in front of the grocery store, making an utter mess but uncaring of it—that was what people expected of an animal, didn't they?—when her whiskers twitched as a strangely familiar scent hit her. Her ears perked up at the footsteps and Minerva turned her head only to spot Dougal coming in from the street beyond, heading in her direction.

Later, Minerva would berate herself for being so stupid and panicking, but at that moment all she could think of was how she did not wish for him to see her.

All she wished for was to get as far away from the man as possible, and so, the Animagus leaped onto the counter of the stall next to the grocery shop. She jumped down to the pavement, only for one of her paws to hit a sharp stone. A yowl of agony escaped her. She wasn't used to this form at all and Minerva cursed herself for being stupid enough to jump without looking.

She tried to stand, only for pain to lance up her leg. Her left front limb was most definitely broken. A pathetic mewl escaped her and the very man she had been trying to avoid heard it. He bent down and picked her up, murmuring '_Poor kitty!' _as he did. Minerva froze, cursing her bad luck.

He touched the leg softly, only to earn another pained sound from her. "It is most definitely sprained, perhaps even fractured. C'mon, you poor baby, I'll take you home and fix it up. You'll be fine soon, wouldn't you?"

She looked at him properly now. His hair was a shaggy mess and it looked as if he hadn't shaved in days. There were huge bags under his eyes and a sadness to them—Minerva hated herself just a bit more for causing this kind, wonderful man this much pain. He looked a mess.

He stroked her back softly and Minerva could feel the calluses on his fingers. Her mind went back to how she used to love to trace them as she held his hand.

He stroked her again, and a part of her wanted to leap out of his arms, even though her leg would probably get even more injured. Another part of her was simply content to be back in the arms of the man she loved, even though she knew it was her who had broken his heart.

An hour later found her on the rug of the living room in the McGregor household, lapping from a warm bowl of milk, her leg bandaged. Dougal had noticed she had no collar and told her he would look after her until she healed. Minerva didn't want to think about what that might mean. Right now, she was just waiting for when he left her alone and then she could transform back into herself. With a broken leg, she couldn't escape as a cat, anyway.

She got her wish a few hours later when Dougal had to leave to help his mother with the lunch. He had sat her in his own bed a couple hours ago—Minerva didn't want to think much of that, either. When a few minutes had passed and she knew he wouldn't come back for a little while, she tried to transform…

…only for a sharp pain to go up her limb, a loud mewl escaping her. She couldn't revert back, Minerva realised. It would be too dangerous to force the transformation; she couldn't risk it. The only thing she could do was to wait until she healed. Her heart ached at the thought of staying with Dougal, even as a cat, and she wasn't sure how she could stand to see him so distraught when she knew she was the reason for his despair.

The next few weeks were going to be hell, but Minerva knew she deserved it.


	9. Chapter 9

_**A/N:**_ _This is the Seeker from Montrose Magpies writing for QLFC Round 8._

_Prompt: Queen of Pentacles — Upright: Practicality, Creature Comforts, Financial Security, Reversed: Self-Centredness, Jealousy, Smothering. Writing for reversed._

_Thanks to my team for looking through it!_

_**Word Count:**_ _1067_

_**Disclaimer:**_ _I have no intention of making money from this story, so all the recognisable stuff belongs to J.K. Rowling._

* * *

**Want**

"Come on, laugh." The bitterness was evident in Regulus' voice, and it, more than the bruises, the cuts, and the burns that littered his friend's body, rattled Barty. "You were always jealous of me, weren't you? Perfect little Regulus Black with his perfect parents," Regulus spat. "Guess they're not so perfect, after all?"

Barty said nothing, and a few moments later, Regulus let out a shaky breath. There was what Barty assumed a sob, but he didn't react to it, knowing it would only embarrass Regulus. "I'm sorry," the black-haired boy muttered, and Barty finally looked up from the injuries and into his friend's grey eyes. They finally reflected the pain that Barty saw in the mirror every single day, and it didn't make him feel… it didn't make him feel anything.

"What happened?"

"Sirius ran away," Regulus muttered. "For a few days, I was the perfect son. Then, dear Mum got angry, and without the scapegoat…" he gestured at himself, and Barty looked away.

x

_The hug smothered him, but he didn't dare complain. It would make his mother cry even more, but that didn't affect Barty, not really. It was his father's cold gaze and the promise of pain that made him bear through all his mother's _emotions.

_His mother was diminutive, and even at eleven, he could look over her shoulder if Barty craned his neck. He did so now, and his gaze caught a boy his age bidding farewell to his parents—the boy bowed to them; his father patted his head, and his mother clutched his robed shoulder for a second._

_In that moment, Barty wished his parents were like that._

x

Barty looked up when he heard footsteps near him, his eyes meeting Regulus', the other raising a brow as he looked down at the parchment balled up in Barty's palm from where he was leaning against the doorframe.

"Letter from home?"

"She wants to know if I'm eating enough," Barty let out through clenched teeth. "People are dying, and she's worried if Hogwarts' giving me food."

"She's just—"

"Stop making excuses!" Barty stood up, pushing the chair back, and paced in the little space between beds. "I'm not a child, and she's too dumb in the head to actually understand that. And I can't say a word else dear daddy will go Auror on me. You're lucky—"

"Am _I_ lucky?" Regulus abandoned the doorframe and stepped in front of Barty, crossing his arms. "Am I lucky, you ask. Did you forget the little getaway present I got before leaving for Hogwarts, huh? Did you, Barty?"

Barty had, but he did not mention it. "You know nothing," he spat, and walked out of the dorm, the door closing with a bang behind him.

x

_The Eagle Owl that dropped in front of his brand new friend—the very same boy who had bowed his parents goodbye—carried a giant package in its talons._

"_What've you got there?" Barty asked, trying to keep his voice smooth, but curiosity and something else slipping through his eleven-year-old tone._

"_Sweets, I guess," Regulus muttered, uncaring, "and probably the book that I forgot home."_

_That other emotion within him grew as Barty thought back to the two letters he had got, once addressing him as 'Little Pumpkin' and the other as 'Boy'._

_Regulus tore open the box after discreetly pinching the letter atop it and hiding it under his robes. Inside was a book and a basket, the latter overflowing with sweets. The black-haired boy picked a Chocolate Frog and dangled it in front of Barty's face. "Want one?"_

"_Nah," Barty muttered, feeling a little sick inside. Why couldn't his parents be… he smothered that train of thoughts down; it wouldn't change anything, would it?_

_Later that day, he nicked a Frog from where the basket lay, forgotten, on Regulus' bed. It wasn't like the other boy would miss it._

x

"They want me to join _him._" Regulus' voice was low; even in the privacy of their dorm, no one could trust anyone now a days.

Barty placed down the Christmas ornament he had been toying with—he'd nicked it off a tree a few days back—and looked at his friend. Regulus looked miserable, dark circles under his eyes, his skin pale. "You-know-who?" The other boy nodded, and Barty leaned forward. "Did you meet him?"

The way Regulus' face paled even further gave Barty his answer even before the other boy nodded. "He—he _crucio'_d Bella in front of me, and no one even flinched. They killed a woman…" Regulus spoke of more horrors, but Barty was fascinated by the look in his friend's eyes. Even Walburga and Orion didn't cause _fear_ in Regulus' eyes, and to see another of his own emotions reflected in his best friend's eyes excited Barty.

"Did you talk to him?" Barty leaned even forward as Regulus stopped his low-toned rant abruptly and stared at him. "Did you?"

"Yes," Regulus whispered with a slow nod. "He—he promised of glory and grandeur, of the dominance of the pure blood, but he's crazy, mate."

Barty didn't care about any of that. The only thing that called to him was the reverential way Regulus spoke of him. Here was a clean slate, dangling in front of Barty. Not a mother sick in the head, nor a father too overworked and stressed to understand a little boy. No great, horrible Black parents.

This was a power who would look at them equally, who would acknowledge Barty the same way as it would Regulus, and Barty be damned if he didn't prove himself.

x

"_What do you want the most in the world?" Barty asked Regulus, kicking his dangling legs in the air. They were sat on the tiny wall of a first-floor balcony—Barty's idea; he had found this spot a few days back and absolutely adored his find._

"_Are you sure sitting here is safe?" Regulus asked; Barty reassured his friend and repeated the question. "Well… maybe Sirius in Slytherin? It would be nice to have him back, I guess."_

_Barty wanted to wrinkle his nose but refrained. How would it be if one didn't even want anything so much that it hurt? How would it be to have everything—or almost everything?_

_He knew all _he _wanted was someone to recognise what Barty was—what Bartemius Crouch, without a Junior attached to remind how even his name was second-hand, could be._


	10. Chapter 10

_**A/N:**_ _This is the Seeker from Montrose Magpies writing for QLFC Quarter Finals._

_Prompt: Find the first submission from a team member this season (not your own!) and use their title as the title and inspiration of your own story. Used JilyTrash's "Just a Dream"_

_Thanks to my team for looking through it!_

_**Word Count:**_ _1000_

_**Disclaimer:**_ _I have no intention of making money from this story, so all the recognisable stuff belongs to J.K. Rowling._

* * *

**The Ring**

Her hand felt funny, as if…

Minerva looked down, and sure enough, there was a ring sitting on her finger. The diamond was tiny and all wrong. The one she had—the one Elphinstone had given her…

She sat up with a start and climbed out of the bed. Kneeling in front of the nightstand, she opened the door with a jerk, only to sit back when she found the box that should have been there missing. She couldn't understand…

Minerva looked down at her hand again, and sure enough, the silver ring with its small diamond was still there, and as much as she tried to stop it, she couldn't suppress the memory of the night Dougal had proposed to her with this ring. This was the ring she had left on his porch the next day, in an envelope with a letter, a stone on top lest it should fly away.

Just then, the door opened, and there he was. He hadn't aged a day since she had last seen him—a chance meet a month after he proposed that had ended with her running away, again—and when Minerva caught sight of herself in the mirror of the dresser that wasn't hers, she realised she looked nineteen, too.

"What are you doing there, sitting on the floor, m'dear?"

Dougal's smile still left her heart racing, and for one stupid moment, Minerva wanted to believe time had turned back and she was nineteen, again. She wasn't that naive, though.

"You're not real," she said, standing up. Dougal quirked a brow—something she couldn't ever do and he always teased her with—and let out a snort.

"Is this witches' tongue or are you making a joke?"

Minerva paused, her brain trying to process what he had just said. Maybe he was just joking? When he didn't crack a smile, it finally clicked. This was what should have been. She needed to confirm, though, and asked, "You know—you know about magic?"

He shot her an amused look. "Of course I do, m'dear."

She felt her voice shaking as she asked, "And—and you don't ha-hate me?" This was something she had never found the answer to, and regardless of whether or not this was just in her mind, she needed the validation.

Dougal walked towards her and placed a hand on her cheek. "Why would I hate you, Minerva? I love you."

And then they were kissing, and Minerva didn't care that this wasn't real, she just wanted this moment to never end.

Dougal led them backwards, her knees hitting the bed, and then she was falling, the image of Dougal blurring until he was no more.

For a moment, she knew nothing. Then, Minerva was in bed again, wrapped up in a blanket, room cozy from the fireplace warming it up. She looked down to her hand, a sad sigh escaping her when she found it devoid of any rings.

Just then, the Floo flared. Minerva picked up her wand, ready to curse anyone who stepped through, even though her logical mind tried to pick up on how no one but Elphinstone had access—

"Merlin, who are you trying to curse, love?"

"Elphinstone?" Her brain felt fuzzy as Minerva removed the blanket and stood up. "What are you— How—"

He walked up to her and placed a hand on her forehead. "You don't seem well, are you alright, love?"

"I'm—I'm fine."

"Are you sure, Minerva? Your face seems pale."

Minerva coughed once into her hand, then smiled, suppressing the rational side of her brain, and sat on the edge of the bed. "Probably just the cold, dear."

"Oh yes, nasty weather we have this year. Well, I do have something to cheer you up just a little."

He dipped his arm into one of his expanded coat pockets, throwing a wink at Minerva. She scowled at him—he was better at charms than she was, and she had never been able to do that particular expansion spell. He never turned down an opportunity to subtly remind her of that.

He brought out a bottle of wine, her favourite one, and the scowl on her face turned into a smile. While the wizarding world swore by Odgen's finest, she had been raised rather like a muggle, and firewhisky never could hold a torch against wine, anyways.

"I love you," she said, summoning two wine glasses from the kitchen. Elphinstone poured out their drinks and handed her glass to her.

"You look lovely tonight."

"You don't have to flatter me. I haven't got out of bed all day."

"Yes, you're rather determined to rest the winter break away. Do you still find teaching better than the Auror office?"

"You know I do," Minerva said, raising her glass to take a sip. "This wine is delicious."

"Uhuh," muttered Elphinstone, moving to sit next to her. He was silent for a long moment, then he sighed deeply and said, "There's been something I've been meaning to ask you, and I know your answer has been… something I didn't want all these previous times." Minerva's heart stopped as she realised what was coming next, "Will you do the honour of becoming my wife?"

He brought out the box Minerva recognised all too well; it was the one she kept in her nightstand. He moved to sit down to one knee, the ring with its shining, giant diamond held out in one hand.

This wasn't how it had happened. They had been at Madam Puddifoot's, and they had purchased this house after the wedding, but in that moment, Minerva didn't care one bit. Soaking in the moment, she took her hands in his and whispered, "Yes."

The next few moments were beautiful, their kiss magical. Then, he started to fade, and Minerva screamed.

She sat up in bed and reached to wipe the tears falling down her eyes, only for new ones to replace them. Dougal was history and Elphinstone was gone. It had been, after all, just a dream.


End file.
